


What Justice Looks Like

by experimentaldata



Series: Redemption 'Verse [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Canon Rewrite, During Canon, F/M, Fix-It, Mystery, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25324117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experimentaldata/pseuds/experimentaldata
Summary: Welcome to work one of the Redemption 'Verse. This collection of fics is set loosely in the Daredevil (NMCU and Bendis and/or Waid Comics) and Hawkeye (Comic) universes, with MCU influences and my own personal flair thrown in. I'm choosing a laissez-faire approach to canon continuity here, so if you're looking for accuracy...I'm sorry, friend. Better luck next time. I'll be slowly introducing some original side characters along the way, so look out for that. Planning on this being a long-running project with a semi-weekly posting schedule, if I can stick to it. Life happens.In this story: Matt, Foggy, Kate and Clint get invited to a charity banquet at Stark Tower. What happens that night could spell the end of vigilante heroes in New York. As events unfold, new alliances are formed, and old friendships are tested. Nelson, Murdock, and Page must join forces with Hawkeye and Hawkeye to defeat their most powerful opponent yet. Special thanks to @momentofmemory and @steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb for beta reading.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Kate Bishop, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop & Matt Murdock, Clint Barton & Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Milla Donovan/Matt Murdock
Series: Redemption 'Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834243
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28





	1. Aspirin or Action

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was inspired by my enduring love of large, loud group events. Or lack thereof. ~sarcasm

_ What a day _ , Matt thought. 

He and Foggy had just ushered a Mr. Jeremiah Andrew “J.A.” Roberts IV out the door, along with a rubbermaid container of his prized Kentucky Black pullet hens, assured to be valued at at least sixty dollars each, really a cash crop. Matt sank into his chair and dropped his head into his hands.

“At least he didn’t pay us with dead ones this time,” Foggy said, sweeping feathers off his desk.

“Mm,” said Matt. 

“You want food? I’m making a Thai Bee run.”

“Mm-mm.”

“Bangkok Pork, hold the chili sauce, it is.” Foggy groaned as he hoisted himself out of his chair, then shuffled off. 

Matt traced his footsteps about a block down the sidewalk, then let his concentration drop. 

Alone at last. 

It had been a long week for Nelson, Murdock, and Page: they'd been swamped with research and paperwork. Mr. Roberts was their last client of the day, just in time for a quick bite before that benefit thing Stark had invited them to. Matt didn’t want to go, but Foggy had insisted. It would be a networking opportunity unprecedented in the history of N, M, & P, he’d said. So much money in one place, someone would be bound to need legal representation, or know someone who did. And these clients would pay. 

He took his glasses off and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to stave off the tension headache he felt growing under his brow. Although Foggy hadn’t said anything, Matt knew his friend had noticed he was getting to his limits. The unnecessary food run before a dinner gala was his way of giving Matt an “out” without being condescending. 

_ One of these days, I’ll figure out how to thank him for that, _ he thought. 

No luck on the headache. The tides of sensory overload had turned at around the time Mr. Roberts had walked in, with that stinking crate of squalling birds. It’d surged as he’d recounted for an hour, in colorful terms, the ten-year saga of his landlord complaints. Now, the wave had crested and spilled over every part of his brain. A thousand smells, sounds, and textures bored their way past his defenses and demanded to be experienced, all at once, in full technicolor. 

Well. So to speak. 

He needed something to shock him out of it. Cold water, maybe.

By the time Foggy got back, things had quieted down. Matt had retreated to the bathroom and closed the door, but Foggy’s presence was unmistakable. The smells of Thai food and the faint musk of NYC sidewalk preceded his footfalls, lighter than normal. Matt smiled in spite of himself. Foggy must be trying to keep things manageable for him. He pulled off his headphones and headed into the kitchen. They ate in silence. 

“You okay to go tonight?” Foggy asked. 

Matt nodded. “Gotta swing by my apartment and change.”

Foggy’s breath caught ever so slightly. 

“Into a nicer suit, Fog.”

Foggy released the breath.

“Gotcha,” he said, relieved. “We don’t really have time for any, ah, public service tonight. And you just got back on that ankle.” 

Matt grimaced. “I know. Fifteen minutes?” 

“Let me check… uh, better make that ten. And you should probably shave.”

“See you then,” Matt said. He collected his things and headed off to his apartment.

  
  


_ The whole thing feels surreal _ , he thought, stripping down and rummaging for a tie. 

Why Stark had invited Foggy, he could easily guess: DA was more than a pipe dream for him. But Matt was small-time compared to Stark’s crowd, and probably always would be. 

_ Socks...socks would be in the bathroom _ . 

He needed to do laundry. 

Foggy was right to say that this was the perfect networking opportunity, one that their firm literally couldn’t afford to pass up. Matt shook his head and yanked his tie knot secure around his neck. 

Networking. Dinners. Small talk. 

He hated it. It was trivial, dangerously so. Compared to the things he heard at night...well. The city had always been hard to drown out. 

_ Jacket, wallet, glasses, watch...what time was it? Shit. _

Foggy would have his head. He snatched his cane and bolted for the door. Just as he was leaving, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

_ Text from Karen,  _ said his phone. 

Matt rolled his eyes and stopped to listen to the message. She’s probably wondering…

_...if you’ve texted that girl back? You know, the one who came to the office the other day? Foggy said you were smitten,  _ Karen’s text said. 

There wasn’t much he could say to that. 

_ Gotta go. Talk soon,  _ he replied.

_ Don’t text me back,  _ Karen countered.  _ Text her instead.  _

There was even less he could say to that. He pocketed his phone and headed downstairs. 

Foggy met him at the station, and together they descended into the sweaty miasma of the New York subway system. The subway was packed with students on their way to weekend getaways, the after-work crowd, and the occasional street musician. It was out of the frying pan, into the fires of sensory hell. But the scents and sounds of the subway car were fading rapidly into the distance as they neared their destination. A chill gust of wind swept across their faces as they made their way to the building’s entrance. 

Matt took a breath, willing himself to calm down, to ground himself in the here and now. The roughness of the asphalt below him, Foggy’s steady heartbeat, the hum of the crowd, the scent of hors d'oeuvres and--gunpowder. The clink of a gun against a belt. Matt stopped. 

“Fog, hold on.”

Foggy stopped in his tracks, and his heartbeat quickened in fear. “What’s up?”

Matt shook his head towards the entrance. “They have security here?”

“What? Uh, actually.” Foggy paused, surveying the crowd ahead. “Yeah, they do. Some guys checking people’s purses and invites.” He gave Matt a playful nudge. “It’s ok, bud, we haven’t pissed off too many cops yet.”

“They’re not cops.”

Foggy paused. “Y’know, we’re just gonna skip past how you figured that out and say no, upon further review, those are not cops. You know that’s creepy, right?”

“Not as creepy as the amount of firepower Stark hired for a dinner party.” 

Another surge in Foggy’s heart rate, and the scent of sweat. “How many?”

Matt tilted his head back and scanned the building in front of them. “Twenty--uh, twenty-two, maybe, on the first floor. Might be a couple more around the back, but it’s hard to tell. There's two vans off to our left, eight apiece. Couple of guys across the way in that warehouse, too.”

Foggy whistled. “This place is like Fort Knox. What’d you wanna do?”

What  _ did _ Matt Murdock want to do? He stretched his senses further out into the crowd. Aside from the overly armed guards, nothing particular grabbed his attention. There were dozens of perfumes, jangling bracelets, peals of laughter, the occasional clink of a glass. But above it all, the feeling of uneasiness. Stark Tower boasted famously well-engineered security, especially since the Battle of New York and subsequent encounters. Good for keeping the bad guys out, but if they got in, or if they were already inside, they’d be sitting ducks. 

His head twinged with the last of his headache from earlier. Matt Murdock wanted to go home, down some aspirin, and go to sleep. 

Daredevil, however, was waiting, listening, feeling the air about him pulse with an energy he couldn’t quite identify. Daredevil was curious, madly so. And Daredevil sensed that, perhaps, he hadn’t just come for a party.

“Well,” said Matt, rousing himself from his thoughts. “We came this far. Let’s at least see what those guards are doing.”

“After you,” Foggy said. 

They got through security, who checked their invites and waved a metal detector over them before sending them inside. The trail of guards led all the way to a mercifully empty elevator. They stepped out onto the third floor, the ballroom doors directly ahead of them. The scents, sounds, and vibrations of the party hit him like a tidal wave. Matt had been beaten to a pulp more times than he could count and got up swinging, but a roomful of strangers hit worse than a punch to the jaw. 

He stood at the door of the ballroom, awash in the radiation of voices, footfalls, cologne, and the jostling energy of several hundred partygoers. Foggy’s heartbeat, and the lingering scent of his curry, and his laundry, anchored him in the space just to his left. Any port in a storm. 

Foggy laid a hand on his shoulder. “You ok?”

“Better get this over with.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Foggy said, clapping him on the back. “C’mon, Matty, it’ll be over before you know it. We just gotta show ‘em our pretty faces, grab a couple of drinks, and pass out every one of these shiny new business cards. You did bring yours, right?”

Matt grinned. “What do you think?”

Foggy just laughed and pushed something into the breast pocket of his suit coat. “Honestly, Matt, what would you do without me?”

“You gonna buy a girl a drink before you start shoving your hand down her dress?”

“Bite me, Murdock. And besides, it’s an open bar.”

“Not helping your case, counselor,” Matt said. “Anyway, I think this crowd is gonna be too upper-crust for our taste.”

Foggy laughed. “Sourpuss. C’mon, let’s go. There’s a plate of bacon-wrapped dates on our table calling my name.”

“Lead the way,” Matt said with a grin. 

They submerged themselves in the sea of partygoers. There was the usual polite conversation, greased along by government-sponsored cocktails. Matt scanned the room for anything out of the ordinary, but nothing stood out. Foggy introduced him to a few people on their way to the table, some interns of Stark’s. Matt handed them a card and smiled politely, letting his partner do the dirty work. There were a few more of those security guards around the perimeter, but they didn’t seem more worked up than normal. No aldehydes on their breath, heart rates steady. Hard to tell through this crowd, though. 

_ Stop it, Matt, stop it. You’re at this party to have a good time and pass out some business cards. The Devil has the night off.  _

After some more elbow-rubbing and polite conversation, they made it to their table, smack dab in the middle of the ballroom. Across from them was the stage, where a jazz band was playing a Glenn Miller piece Matt vaguely remembered from his father’s cassette tapes, but couldn’t place. They had crossed from the cool tile of the outer room to a wooden floor, directly in front of a stage. Matt swore under his breath and breathed a prayer to whatever Saint was listening that he wouldn’t have to dance tonight. 

Foggy got his bacon-wrapped dates, and opened up their table’s bottle of wine. Soon, the conversation turned from work talk to tabloids, mostly the sex lives of the rich and famous. Matt pushed his salad around with his fork. The jazz music ebbed into a moment of relative, merciful quiet. 

Just as he relaxed his guard, there was an ear-splitting screech that sent him reeling. He hissed and clutched at his ear before catching himself, smoothing out his shirt and hoping no one had noticed. Tony Stark’s voice projected over the loudspeakers, boring directly into his brain. 

“Sorry there, folks, bit of a mic problem. How are we feeling tonight, Stark Industries?” There was a round of polite applause, sprinkled with a few whistles and one or two playful  _ boos _ from the chairs closest to the stage. 

Tony kept talking. And talking. It was nothing Matt hadn’t heard before-- _ We have a lot to be thankful for, this family has done more for New York than he’d ever thought we could do, together we will stand strong against the threat of aliens. _

Or nukes. Or whatever. He’d stopped paying attention: four more armed guards were making their way from the vans outside to the main staircases on either side of the ballroom. Their boots thudded in a soft cadence up the stairs, accompanied by the faint rattle of their weapons. 

Two on each side of the door. They were surrounded. 

As the room erupted into applause at the end of Stark’s speech, Matt leaned in and whispered to Foggy. 

“There’s a balcony out back.”

“Yeah, just behind us. Why?”

“I’ll be out there. Something… something’s off.” He heard Foggy’s heartbeat quicken again. “Could be nothing. Could be something. I’m going to go out and see if I can pick up on anything.” 

He snagged his beer bottle off the table and slipped through the crowd towards the balcony. 


	2. Parties and Psychics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long break! Various circumstances prevented me from posting sooner. Thank you for reading thus far!

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. 

Clint could accept that bad things happen to good people—but  _ annoying _ stuff? That was supposed to happen to the bad guys only. He read Kate’s text again, but it didn’t improve matters. 

_ Clint, I am telling you, as your friend and partner, that you have to go to this thing. _

_ Bull _ , he typed back.  _ This is a job for Hawkeye. Only place I’m going tonight is Dunkin. _

_ I am on Spring Break,  _ Kate replied,  _ My last one, in fact. This is sacred. I might get a tattoo. I might get a pet iguana. I might have a life-altering experience on a jungle excursion and meet the love of my life in a remote village and never return. _

Clint snorted.  _ Don’t say that.  _

_ I’m serious,  _ she replied.  _ And besides, Stark invited you specifically.  _

Clint rolled his eyes.  _ You could’ve gone though. Invitation said Hawkeye. _

_ The INVITE said Hawkeye,  _ Kate corrected him _. But the ADDRESS listed a Clinton Francis Barton. The big dummy scaredy-pants was implied. _

_ Jackass. _

_ Jackass who’s saving YOUR ass,  _ Kate shot back.  _ Go put something nice on. Actually, check the hall closet. You’ve got a suit in there from that wedding you went to last year. Still in the bag. _

Clint chuckled.  _ Your a lifesaver. _

_ *You’re.  _

  
  


Clint rolled his eyes again. Nothing he could say to that, he supposed. 

_ I know, you’d be lost without me. Now shoo. I have to go do a life-changing round of shots with some med students. Do NOT be late!!!!!!!! _

Clint sighed and went to get changed. Maybe pregame a little too. He checked the fridge for a beer-- _ Ope, last one. Better make a beer run after this.  _

He popped the cap on his “I <3 NY” bottle opener magnet - Kate’s housewarming present - and downed half of it on his way to the coat closet. 

Damn. It  _ had _ been a while since he’d worn a suit. He only owned one--gray, with faint pinstripes, the white shirt, periwinkle tie, and pocket square still in place from when he’d last worn it. It was the last of his dad’s things before - well, anyway. Barney refused to wear it and it was Clint’s size. Not like he was going to go buy one, regardless. 

He left his pajama pants and t-shirt on the floor and rooted around in the closet for a belt.  _ Gotta get back on the bandwagon, Barton _ .  _ Those trousers used to fit your abs. _

His phone flashed twice. He walked over and grabbed it off the kitchen counter, finishing off the beer as he checked. Another message from Kate. 

_ Hope you have a speech prepared. _

He almost spit out what was left of his drink.  _ We have to make a speech at this thing?!?!?! _

Thirteen “crying laughing” emojis appeared in a row. 

_ THE LOOK ON YOUR FACEEEEEE _

He tapped the eye roll, cuss word, and flipping the bird emojis, then thought better of it.  _ Enjoy your shots, Hawkeye. See you tomorrow. _

_ Wayyyy ahead of you.  _

_ Figures,  _ he replied.  _ Have fun.  _

He grabbed his wallet, keys, and a bag of Doritos off the counter on his way out. There’d probably only be fancy food at this thing. Might have to eat a vegetable.  _ Imagine _ . 

“Bye, Lucky,” he called. The yellow lab gave him a reproachful look, but was too comfy on the couch to get up and say goodby properly. Lazy mutt. Clint checked his phone and sighed. __

_ Better not show up late to this. Kate’ll skin me alive, _ he thought. 

He took one last wistful look at his apartment, then jogged down the stairs.

Clint sulked his way through the subway ride. He’d been invited to these Stark gatherings before, but had always managed to weasel his way out of going. Three years ago, it was Barney’s birthday, two years ago it was his, last year he had broken his arm and spent the night in the ER hopped up on pain medicine. 

Stroke of luck. 

He laid his head back on the seat window and closed his eyes. It would be a second before his stop. Might as well take advantage. The train lurched around a corner, jerking his head side to side. They exited a tunnel and coasted along for awhile. The train continued to rock, gentler now. Clint drifted down in his seat as the miasma of the train car lulled him into a doze.

The train stopped. Clint jerked awake and looked around, wide-eyed. One more stop left. He sighed with relief, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Text from Nat. 

_ Hey _

Clint frowned. She never texted him. 

Well, almost never. The last time she had, she’d been in over her head at a stakeout gone south, which is how he’d gotten that broken arm. 

_ Maybe there was hope for tonight after all,  _ he thought.

_ What’s up?  _ He replied.

Natasha typed for awhile, stopped, then typed some more. 

_ You coming tonight?  _

_ Yeah,  _ Clint said.  _ Why? _

More typing.  _ She won’t answer that,  _ Clint thought. 

_ Wearing civvies?  _

That was a weird question.  _ Haha no I’m naked. U?  _

_ This isn’t a joke. Are you in your suit?  _

_ Sorry,  _ he replied.  _ No, I'm wearing my dad’s suit.  _

_ Good. Stay low tonight.  _

Now that was  _ definitely  _ weird.  _ Ten-four,  _ he replied. 

She didn’t message back. 

He made his way out of the subway and across the street to the tower. Stark had just renovated the giant “A” logo, and it gleamed gold against the city skyline, matching the lights in the windows covering the building. Below the tower, party guests lined outside the door for half a block. Clint noted, to his chagrin, that most of the guests’ attire bordered on black tie. 

_ Should’ve taken Kate’s advice and rented a suit,  _ he thought. Too late now. 

He got in the back of the line and fumbled through his pockets until he found the invitation. There were a few security guards checking invites, emptying people’s pockets, typical stuff. He thought he’d get a headstart on the process.

Clint waved his invite in their faces and they shrugged, checked the roster, and let him through. No metal detector or anything. Every so often, there were perks to being an Avenger. 

He made his way to the elevator, checking his phone on the ride up. No further texts from Nat. He hadn’t seen her in line, either. She could be inside already, but he doubted it. Making a fashionably late entrance was kind of her specialty, and besides, he’d like to think that she’d tell him if she were coming. 

If he were being honest, though, she probably wouldn’t have. She was just like that. Most people would call it mysterious, but in his experience, it was just frustrating.

The elevator doors opened, and Clint stepped off. There was a swarm of guests already inside, nibbling appetizers and talking amongst themselves. Clint slipped through the crowd and snagged himself a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter, then headed for the table indicated on his invite. He found his seat right as Stark got up on stage. 

There was a god-awful racket from the sound system that sent his hearing aids screeching, and several people at the table glanced his direction in alarm. He adjusted them, his face turning beet red, and managed to quiet them down just as Stark began his speech.

Clint didn’t pay much attention during the speech. Or the next speech. Or the musical interlude, accepting of some award, or the tearful third speech from some philanthropist’s wife. 

Not like he could catch more than half of what they were saying, anyway. The table next to his had consumed more than a few bottles of wine, and had long stopped caring whether the speeches overlapped with their gossiping.

But with boring speeches came a free dinner, such as it was. Champagne, stuffed dates, and those little lettuce wedge salads were the only things to’ve come out so far, with a main course to be provided after the speeches. 

_ All they have is fancy food at this thing,  _ he thought. _ Disgusting. _

Clint picked at his salad, careful to avoid the blue cheese crumbles. 

_ First vegetable I’ve had in a month, _ he thought.  _ Kate would be proud. _

He shifted in his chair, tugging on his bow tie. He felt like a show pony in this getup. One of those runner-up ponies that some girl would befriend in a Hallmark movie--another Kate Bishop addition to his life. 

He glanced at his table-mates. There were three couples, mostly in their mid-fifties or so. He thought he’d heard Tony mention that they were some of the higher-ups from R&D. Directly across from him was a pair he vaguely recognized - that blind lawyer guy and his partner. Friend. He didn’t know.  He remembered seeing them on the news--something about the blind one having his own superhero identity.  _ He didn’t look much like one _ , Clint thought, though he did look much more at home in a suit than Clint did.  _ Maybe that was his power. _

The speeches finally ended, and dinner was served. It was chicken with some wine-soaked mushroom sauce. Barely edible, by Clint’s standards. Thankfully, dessert was good old, New York-style cheesecake. After the dessert course ended, a brass band started up “In The Mood.” One by one, couples glided onto the dance floor in front of the stage. 

_ Well, there go my chances of any conversation in here, _ Clint thought. _ I’d better go get some air. And a beer. Did they even serve beer in a place like this?  _

They did, and Clint found himself on the balcony off the back of the ballroom, overlooking the city from fifteen stories up. There were some battered deck chairs, a grimy-looking table and ashtray, and most importantly, relative silence. The whole scene was lit only by a string of electric lanterns hung around the overhead cabana, and the headlights from the traffic below. Clint sank into a chair, sipping his beer and hoping to his mind sit blank for a few minutes.

He wasn’t alone anymore. 

Clint jumped in his chair, nearly spilling his drink. The blind guy from his table was standing right behind him and--how had he not noticed? Mind must’ve been blanker than he thought. He heard the man say something in a questioning tone. Clint craned his neck to face the stranger. 

“I’m sorry?” 

The man tilted his head, as if he was listening to something. He shifted slightly, positioning himself closer to the string of lightbulbs hanging over the patio awning, and facing Clint. “I was just asking if you were leaving the party early.”

“Nah, not really. Just getting my bearings. This kinda thing really isn’t my speed.”

“Me neither. Care if I join you?”

Clint noticed that he had a beer of his own.

“Not at all,” Clint said. “Chair’s just to your left.”

“Thanks. I’m Matt, by the way.”

“Pleasure. I’m Clint.”

He folded his cane and sat down. The two men pulled their chairs around the ashtray table and sipped their drinks in silence.

“Y’know,” Clint said after a few moments, “If you’d lend me a cigarette, I might just kiss you.”

Matt grinned and shook his head. “Can’t take the smell.” He paused. “You don’t strike me as a smoker.”

“I don’t what?”

“You don’t smoke.” 

Clint shrugged. “Only on special occasions.”

“Ah.”

They both stared down at the city, lost in thought. A few more minutes of silence passed. 

“So Clint, what do you do for a living?” Matt asked.

Clint sighed. His beer was getting warm. “They tell me I’m a superhero.”

Matt grinned. “Is that so? Can’t say I relate.”

“Aren’t you the one on the news though?” Clint asked. “The one who’s supposed to be the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? Or are there more vigilante blind lawyers  that I don’t know about?”

“I plead the fifth,” Matt said, holding up five fingers. 

“Typical shark,” Clint said with a grin. “Want me to go grab another round?”

“That would be great, thanks.”

Clint ducked back into the ballroom and came back with the beers. 

“Cheers.”

“S _ láinte.” _

They sipped in silence again. 

“So we agree that this is weird, right?” Clint finally said. 

Matt frowned. “That depends. Weird how?”

“I dunno, man,” Clint replied, “I just feel like we’re being watched or something.”

Matt took a sip of his drink, an untraceable expression on his face. “What gives you that impression?”

“What gives what?”

“Why do you think that?” 

Clint frowned “Well, that depends. Can I be honest with you?”

Matt laughed. “I hope so, yeah.”

“I’m...I’m an Avenger. Supposedly.

“Congratulations.”

Now it was Clint’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, yeah it’s...a mixed blessing. Anyway, we all talk, y’know? Just, about stuff we see around, things to watch out for. Stuff like that.” 

Matt set his empty beer bottle down and sat forward in his chair. “So, is there something to watch out for”

“Yes? No? I’m not really sure. Nat--Natasha--The Black Widow--”

“I know who she is.”

“Right. Yeah. Well anyway, she texted me earlier and--y’know what, let me just read it to you.”

He read Matt the texts. Matt’s frowned deepened.

“And you trust her?”

“One more time?”

“The Black Widow. She can be trusted?”

Clint sighed. “I’d trust Nat with my life. She keeps secrets, sure. But she’s saved my ass more times than I can count.

Mat nodded. “Understood. What she said checks out. Something’s up, here. Stark must be expecting something to happen.” 

“Exactly!” Clint said. “There’s armed security over every inch of this place. And I’m not talking about your, like, typical crowd control. I’m talking military-grade weapons and tactical gear. Isn’t that kinda overkill for something like this?” 

“Yeah, I noticed them too,” Matt said. “Twenty-two inside the building: two flanking each door, two as we came in, eight on the second floor, one on each fire escape, and six in the basement. Couple of vans in the alley below us too, with eight apiece” 

“Wait, what’s in the alley?”

“Vans. Security vans. There’s sixteen more armed men between them.”

Clint blinked.  _ Well, there’s his power, _ he thought. _ Damn psychic. Or maybe his partner told him. Hard telling.  _

“Uh, yeah, so I only caught the ones downstairs. Anything else you wanna share?”

“Not much - there’s a lot going on in there. What’d you notice?”

Clint laughed. “I’m not the human radar.”

“Everyone notices something.”

He thought back to the dinner. “Well, for one, those tactical guys - the ones that I saw, anyway - are unmarked. No FBI, NYPD, nothing.”

Matt nodded. “Private security. Pretty typical for an event this size.”

“I dunno,” said Clint, “kinda seems like overkill. Why go through all the trouble of hiring a mini-SWAT team for a dinner party?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.” Matt held his hand up, cocking his head to one side. “Someone’s coming.”

Before Clint could react, a long shadow fell across the patio. He wheeled around in his chair to see Stark, in all his impeccable glory, silhouetted in the light of the party behind him. 

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

There was a beat of awkward silence. 

“You’re looking well, Mr. Stark,” Matt said when it appeared that no one else was going to rescue them.

“And you...aren’t. Now listen, friends,” he said, closing the door behind him, “I don’t have much time before they miss me in there, but I thought I’d offer you some advice. You ever been to the Maldives?” 

“The who?” Clint asked.

“Maybe the Virgin Islands. American Micronesia. Guam. My point is, have you ever wanted to go somewhere and just relax, maybe, I don’t know, lay low for awhile?”

Clint was sure he must be missing something. None of this made sense. He glanced at Matt, who looked… well, hard to say. 

“Is that something you’d recommend, Mr. Stark?” Matt asked.

Stark was already halfway through the door. “Forget I said anything. But if you like piña coladas, you know who to call.” With a wave of his hand, he stepped through the door and melted back into the gala.

The patio reverted back to awkward silence. Clint tried to think of a way to ask if Matt’s super senses had picked up anything else, but couldn’t. 

“So, not normal?” Clint finally asked. 

Matt stood and unfolded his cane. “Never was.” He stood up to leave. “Clint, it’s been a pleasure,” he said, extending his hand. 

Clint stood and accepted the handshake. “Same here.” 

Matt turned toward the door, then paused. “Here,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket, handing Clint a card. “If anything else happens, call me.”

“Will do. Nice meeting you.”

Matt nodded and slipped back into the ballroom, as quietly as he’d come.

Clint glanced down at the business card. It was ivory cardstock, trimmed in a red and black border, overlaid in Braille.

_ Matthew M. Murdock, Esq. _

_ Nelson, Murdock, and Page _

_ No one stands outside Justice. _

The address seemed vaguely familiar. Midtown West. He’d probably passed it a dozen times. 

Damn. There were getting to be too many of these undercover supers for him to keep track. 

His phone buzzed. Kate.

_ Remember, you’re picking me up at the airport tomorrow. _

_ Yep, 10:00 sharp _

_ *9:00. See you then _

It was already 1:00 AM. Better turn in for the night. He walked back into the throbbing din of the party, the jazz band having been replaced by a glow stick- wielding DJ. 

He had just made it through the door when the first shot rang out.


	3. The Watched and the Watcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with my update schedule. Please forgive any canon continuity errors, and note that this is a fix-it/AU fic. Also, thanks for reading, and let me know what you think. :)

It was a hot summer day in New York. And, like she always did at half-past three o’clock in the afternoon, Luna went out on a walk. 

She padded out of the apartment and breathed deeply, savoring the city air around her. The afternoon street carts were out in full swing, taking advantage of the schoolchildren and tourists who turned out in droves at this hour. Hot dogs and ice cream were the lifeblood of the borough in the summer. Luna paused to take it all in, and then, with a gleeful toss of her head, started off on her usual route around the block. 

All the neighbors that she loved best were there. She flashed a cheery expression at Mr. Mendez, the local grouch with eyes only for her. He looked up from his paper and returned the smile in spite of himself. Next door, the O’Reilly twins trilled their bicycle bells and let her playfully chase them down the block before they waved goodbye and pedaled off to their ballet lesson. Luna passed the library, then the barbershop, and slinked her way past Mr. Gottfried’s house, keeping an eye out for his malevolent cat, Whiskers. But luck was on her side, and no feline intruder would dampen her spirits this afternoon. With a toss of her fur, Luna rounded the final corner of her journey. Soon, this Friday afternoon walk would be complete. 

But what was this? As she rounded the bend, a new scent greeted her. She stopped to sniff. Then it hit her. The smell of a friend! Her best friend in the whole neighborhood! With a shake of her head, she wriggled out of her collar and scampered off towards her friend to greet her. 

The lady smiled, and bent down to pat Luna on the head. 

"How are you,  лапочка ?" she said. Luna jumped up on her hind legs and started showering her friend in kisses. 

Luna's owner, jogging behind with the empty leash, finally caught up. He stopped to catch his breath. "So sorry, so sorry! She's always crazy on these walks, and I tried to keep up, but that new collar's too big for her and I--" 

The woman smiled and scooped Luna up, handing her over to her grateful owner. "Really, it's no trouble. You're new around here, right?"

Luna's owner ran his fingers through his hair sheepishly, and pushed his glasses back into place on his nose. "Yeah, uh, I moved in last week. College. I'm going--I go to college. NYU."

The woman nodded, her smile widening. She brushed a red lock of hair away from her face. "I'm new around here, too. You live in this building?"

"For now," he said. "Hell's Kitchen isn't the best, but the price was right. I, uh, I'm Marc by the way."

"Pleasure to meet you. Tiffany."

"Tiffany." He gave another nervous chuckle and checked his watch. "Well, Tiffany, I hope that I haven't seen the last of you?" 

She smiled back. "Oh no, I actually just moved in myself. Is it… is it quiet around here? Like are there people around, during the day?"

Marc frowned. "Let me think… there's always a couple people out front. Mr. Martin and Mr. Zdarsky, they like to smoke and talk shop about the army. 'Nam vets.” He bent down and reattached Luna’s collar as they talked. “There's a couple ladies with kids, but they're pretty quiet. College kids from upstate, mostly."

Tiffany tilted her head, furrowing her brow into a confused expression. "Is there anyone… unusual? Like, anyone I should look out for?" She laughed at Marc’s startled expression. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just, you know, I'm new in town, living alone... "

"I get it, I get it," Marc said. "Look. I've lived here a couple of years now. There's never been anyone I'd worry about. Everyone here has been super nice, or else they haven't stayed long. Mr. Park saw to that. He's the best." 

"Oh, is he the landlord?" Tiffany asked. 

"Yeah," Marc said, "Even gave that blind guy on the fourth floor a room practically free. Said he couldn't rent it out anyway; no one wanted to stare at that god-awful billboard all night."

Tiffany looked up sharply. "A blind guy?"

"Well, yeah. Quiet dude. He's cool though. Moved in last year. Mostly keeps to himself. Between you and me," he said, moving in a bit closer and lowering his voice, “I think he might have a bit of a problem with… y’know…”

Tiffany blinked demurely.

“You know, the…” Marc mimed a bottle, and staggered a bit. 

“Ohh, I get it. Parties a little hard.”

“Yeah. Up at all hours. I used to see him in the stairwell every so often when I was working nights. He gets banged up a lot too. Looks like he barely sleeps. The works.”

“That’s sad.” 

“Yeah. I worry sometimes that he’ll fall off the fire escape and, well, that’ll be it. Sorry, that got… kinda dark."

"Not at all," Tiffany replied, lingering a bit on the smile. "So, you said he was up at night? About what times?"

Marc thought for a minute. "Well, I mean, I only worked nights for a month or so, but when I was coming back it was… maybe two, three-thirty, and I saw him out on his balcony a couple of times. Wears all black, mostly, kinda goth-looking. But like I said, he was pretty banged up. Hard to spot him though. I only saw him because I always check to see if there's a light on in my room before I go up. That was back when… well, I don't really have anyone waiting up on me anymore."

"Now  _ that  _ is sad."

"Heh, yeah, I guess," Marc said, leaning on the stone handrail of their building in a pose he hoped was debonair. "There, uh, there isn't anyone around anymore to keep the light on for me right now, so…"

Tiffany smiled again and started edging towards the sidewalk. "It was nice to meet you, Marc. And thanks for the tips." She waved goodbye with a wink. "Guess I'll see you around."

Marc waved a nervous goodbye. "Heh, yeah, I guess. See you around."

Tiffany rounded the corner, glanced behind her to make sure she hadn't been followed, and dropped the smile, lifting her hand up to mutter into a comm hidden in her sleeve. 

"Tonight. 0300"

"What the hell took you so long, Romanoff?" said a voice at the other end of her comm.

"Oh, relax. Kid almost shit himself, he was so nervous. But he's a talker. And hey, I might have a date tomorrow."

"Excuse me?" 

"Forget it. Anyway, have the strike team here tomorrow no later than 0300. He'll be out all night tracking the package from Stark's party. Let them tire him out, and then we’ll pay him a visit."

The voice on the comm swore. "You really are a black widow, you know that? Pure poison."

"Hm. Now are we done here? I want a hot dog." 

The voice on her comm sighed. "Yeah, we're done. Meet at 1800?"

"1800."

"Wear something nice."

"Noted.”

Natasha switched off the comm and made her way to the hot dog cart. She’d met the proprietor, a Ms. Hermann, on an earlier recon mission, and had become a regular customer. She’d seen “Tiffany” approaching from the opposite end of the street, and had already put her order in a paper bag for her. She waved at Natasha as she approached, then turned back to her phone, where she was having  an animated discussion with her son who lived upstate. Natasha had heard all about it by now. She waved back, took the paper back, and left some cash in its place. Sitting down with her two Chicago-style with extra onions dogs, she pulled out a flip phone and typed in a number from memory. 

_Hey_ , she texted. She waited for him to respond, but when it came through, it was clear he was not taking this seriously. 

_ Stupid, stupid archer,  _ she thought _. _ His carefree demeanor was easily her favorite thing about him, and on any other day she would be appreciative. But once, just this once, she wished he would take this seriously. She sighed and shook her head. It didn’t matter. If he wanted to treat this like a joke at the start, that was fine. He wouldn’t by the time this was over, that’s for sure. 

She pocketed the phone. It probably only had a couple days left before it became a liability. No sense keeping a burner around for long. 

But there were bigger things to worry about now. She had a party to get ready for. 

She breezed past the sleepy security guard in the lobby and headed up to her new apartment. Well, it wasn't hers. S.H.I.E.L.D. was behind this particular operation. Not directly, of course. But they were allowing the “Foundation for the Security of Enhanced Personnel and Weapons” to operate the surveillance and tracking portion of this mission. 

After that, of course, the rest was up to the feds; they wouldn’t be getting their hands dirty. It was that potent mix of federal immunity and private-sector money that got the most people in trouble with the least amount of work. Despicable work, really. But the pay was good, after you fought down the nausea and accepted your fate. She’d done that a long time ago. 

She paused at the top of the landing on the fifth floor. Apartment 501, her home away from home for the next three weeks. Then again, home was everywhere, and nowhere, for her. Maybe someplace outside Volgograd. Maybe Stark tower. For the last month, it had been at a different apartment building, one with a one-eyed dog and an arrow permanently lodged in the center of a dartboard.

She pushed aside such sentimental thoughts. Three hours before a mission was not the time to go soft. Across the way, on the far side of the building, was her mark. Murdock’s apartment, smack dab in front of ‘that god-awful billboard.’ She crept up to the door and listened. Not a sound. Murdock should be at work on a Friday afternoon. And, apparently, he was. Satisfied, she turned and headed across the hall to her room. 

Coulson had thought of everything. The room was sparsely, but comfortably, furnished with a futon and a table and chairs. There were sheets and a thin blue blanket already laid out on the futon, and a few paper stacks on the counter. Natasha tossed her bag next to the blanket, then went to investigate the contents of the grocery bags. Snacks. She popped the top of the can of condensed milk and dipped her finger in. On a hunch, she checked the mini fridge next to the bags on the counter.  _ Score,  _ she thought.  _ He remembered the french toast sticks. _

Food in hand, she headed to the closet. A little black dress would be perfect for this event. And even better than that, this little black dress came with a matching thigh holster. She slipped out of her tracksuit and into her sheer hose, then the holster over top, then the dress. It hugged her curves in all the right places, and left room for her weapon, concealed with a clever bit of ruching down the skirt. 

She stepped to the bathroom to apply a sensible amount of makeup and curl her hair.  _ Two hours,  _ she thought, noting the time as she slipped on her watch. It might be gauche to wear one in the evening, but Stark would forgive her. Besides, it was encrusted with diamonds, along with her choker and matching teardrop earrings. Not flashy enough to draw unwanted attention, either from being over or underdressed for the occasion. Stepping back into the living room, she readied her most important accessory of all: a .40 caliber compact pistol, as well as a couple extra clips. She loaded and snapped the safety in place, then slipped the gun and clips into her holster, smoothing her skirt over top of the whole arrangement. One final mirror check. She crossed the room again, noting and adjusting the holster for comfort. And visibility. There would be more than a few security guards to get past, though Coulson had assured her they’d be briefed on her  _ special  _ status. She popped her lipstick and invitation, along with the burner phone, into the pocket of her dress. 

_ Good enough,  _ she thought.  _ Time to go.  _

One last glance at the apartment, just so nothing was out of place in case she was followed. And a final glance at her phone, in spite of herself. 

_ Going soft in your old age, are you?  _ She thought.  _ Clint’s a grown man. He can look after himself. _

She rolled her eyes at herself and started towards the door, pausing for a second before opening it. She heard a noise coming towards her down the empty corridor.

_ Tap… Tap… Tap… _

She leaned closer, looking out of the spyhole in the door. Across the hall, a man in a dark suit reached the top of the stairs. He leaned his white cane against his shoulder and fished in his pocket for his keys. 

Natasha caught her breath.  _ This isn’t right. He’s not supposed to be home for another hour.  _ Despite herself, she felt her heartbeat quicken. No one really knew what Murdock’s alleged powers were. The information in the official file she’d been given could’ve fit on a napkin - it boiled down to, _ be careful. We don’t know how he does it, but they don’t call him the devil for nothing.  _

As if on cue, he paused. Natasha watched as he slowly turned towards her door, his eyes obscured behind deeply tinted glasses. He tilted his head, listening for something. With a twitch of his neck, almost unnaturally fast, he turned his head towards her over his shoulder. 

His eyes, she noticed, looked average enough. Pity. She’d hoped to judge for herself if the reports of his blindness were true. The topic was hotly debated in S.H.I.E.L.D circles. Natasha herself had no opinion. She preferred to let her targets introduce themselves. This one looked like he was watching her. _No, not watching,_ she thought. _Listening._ He was “gazing” across the corridor with his ear leading the way, sweeping in an arc past her door. He paused again, this time with his ear directly facing her. She could just barely see his eye behind his glasses. It was darting back and forth, as if he were

thinking. Natasha had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d been spotted, though she didn’t know how. 

On a hunch, she let her breath out in a low sigh, barely audible even to herself. She waited for Murdock to respond in kind. If he heard it, however, he didn’t take the bait. Murdock paused for a second longer, then grabbed his cane and slipped into his apartment. Natasha waited a few seconds, then hurried downstairs to catch her cab. 

********************************

Natasha arrived just as her target and his partner were getting scanned in at the front entrance. Natasha made sure that they got through ok, then slipped around the back. One, two, three doors down around the south end of the building, there would be a back entrance next to a fire lane.  _ Yes _ . She scanned in using her Avengers ID, carefully concealed in the lining of her purse, and slipped into the service entrance of Stark tower. 

The party was unremarkable. Stark made all the expected remarks - a good year for shareholders, more money being diverted to relief funds in the coming year, and one-hundred percent fewer alien attacks since their last event. There was some scattered chuckling and applause at that last one. 

Natasha rolled her eyes and concentrated on her watch, counting down the minutes. She was standing in the hallway to the side of the ballroom, listening to the entire speech. The music started, and she checked her watch again. Eight minutes after eight. Almost go time. 

“Operative six-six, come in. Repeat, six-six, do you copy?”

Natasha brought the watch to her mouth and spoke quietly into the comm embedded inside. “Copy that, team leader. Ready to get this party started?”

“Affirmative, six-six,” said the voice of Agent Hill in her ear. “Remember, your mission is to draw out the target only. Do not engage unless there is a direct threat to civilians present. Let the task force take care of the rest. We do not know how dangerous the target is. Do you understand, six-six?”

“Understood, team leader.” 

_And when shit inevitably hits the fan, like every other time we’ve done this, I’ll get another briefing on ‘getting too involved’ and ‘preserving observational data integrity,’_ she thought. She almost turned the comm back on, but thought better of it. No sense in arguing with Hill on this one.

The S.H.I.E.L.D crew had these observational studies down to a science. Draw out your target, get them in a place where they  _ had _ to use their powers, and they’d sing like a canary, so to speak. It’s how they’d picked up Parker, and most recently, Bishop. And with the current interpretation of the Sokovia Accords, there was little they’d had to prove. Any enhanced individuals were sent for further testing, far removed from the original S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives who had incriminated them. They were in the feds’ hands at that point. All S.H.I.E.L.D. had to do was wait for the check, and for their next assignment. It made her sick, at least at first. But the Black Widow had long ago learned that her loyalty was only to herself. Working with S.H.I.E.L.D simply allowed the freedom, or at least the plausible deniability, for her to operate as she pleased. 

Security cameras and cell phones meant that they rarely missed a mark. Still, Natasha checked her phone to make sure the camera in her necklace was transmitting. _ Good to go. _ She reached for her comm to transmit the “go” signal, but Hill cut her off. 

“Hold position, six-six. We have interference on the patio.”

Natasha swore under her breath. “Who?”

“Stark.”

She swore again, this time in Russian. “He’s not supposed to be out there.”

“Motive unclear,” Hill replied. The  _ unless someone tipped him off _ was implied. 

Natasha decided she’d let that one go. “Ready on your mark, team leader.”

A few more minutes of silence. She eased her pistol out of its holster, gripping it in both hands between herself and the wall, in case anyone should surprise her in the hallway.There wasn’t supposed to be anyone there - the security detail from that evening should be covering her. But apparently people were ending up in places they weren’t supposed to be tonight. She just hoped that Stark had the sense to stay out of the way when things got exciting. The last thing they needed was his meddling in things that didn’t concern him. 

“Now!” said Hill over her comm. 

Natasha glanced up at the security camera. The green light had switched to a blinking red, their agreed-upon signal that the video feed loop was running. She was safe. She stepped out into the hallway, and fired twice into the air. 

They were blanks, of course, but the gunshots they produced were real enough. She heard the screams of the crowd inside, and the crash of furniture and glasses being pushed over. Her comm exploded in activity as the various security teams scrambled to their posts. 

She checked the security camera. Still looping. Now was her chance. 

“Team Leader, cover me. I’m headed down to get a look at the target.” 

“Good luck, six-six.”

She sped down the hallway, through the stairwell, and past a cluster of guards on the second floor.  _ The balcony,  _ she thought.  _ Murdock.  _ She reached the top of the stairwell. The door opened to an identical hallway to the floor below. And if her reading of the building schematics beforehand was correct… yes, a fire exit towards the balcony, behind her and to the left. She ran up to the door, leaning against it to look out its small glass window, just in time to see a figure flash past her and head for the interior door. She glanced at her watch. Two minutes until the security camera loop ended. She would have to act fast. 

Inside the ballroom, the seeds of chaos she’d planted had sprung into an all-out panic. Security guards ushered distraught women in evening wear towards the exits. Stark was at the front towards the stage, barking orders into his own comm and waving off another contingent of security, who were trying to hustle him towards a private exit. Clint, she noted, was nowhere to be seen. 

_There,_ she thought as she spotted her mark. Murdock was heading towards her, slipping along the wall past the noise and chaos. He moved through the crowd with startling ease, she noted, deftly leaping over fallen chairs and skirting around screaming guests as he made his way towards the hall exit. He was headed right towards her. Now was her chance. 

“Murdock,” she said, low enough to keep her comm from triggering. “East Hallway. Now.” She ducked back into the hallway, leaning against the wall across from the security cameras.

Just seconds later, Murdock burst through the door, panting. He whipped his head towards her, then launched forward to strike.

“Matt, stop!,” Natasha said, shifting out of the way. 

He paused, and let the next strike fall flat, pulling her by the arm into the corner by the exit. “Who are you, and how do you know my name?” 

“Nobody, and it doesn’t matter.” 

He sniffed the air. “You fired that gun.”

“You get around pretty well for a blind guy.”

Murdock shrugged. 

“Listen,” she continued, “There’s a security camera directly above us. It’s set to a loop for the next--” she checked her watch, “--fifty-five seconds and counting. We have to get out of here before it comes back online. Follow me.” 

To her surprise, Murdock nodded, and started off down the hallway after her. They made their way down to the first floor, keeping out of any cameras save for the ones she knew were inactive. Finally they reached the loading doors that Natasha had come in at the start of the evening. They both paused for a second, breathing heavily. 

“Listen,” she said after they’d caught their breaths. “You can’t go back to your apartment tonight.”

If Murdock was surprised by any of this, he wasn’t showing it. 

“Why not?” 

“They’ve hired me to come after you. Prove that you’re something you’re not.”

“And what is that?”

Natasha rolled her eyes and shot him a withering glare, not that it did any good. “Just...lead me on a wild goose chase, ok? Make it look like I lost you, then head back to your place. I need to be able to say I did my best.”

Murdock grinned. He was taking this whole thing too much in stride. It was almost creepy. “I can do that. Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Having my back.” Murdock adjusted the scarf around his head and turned to go, then stopped. 

“I never caught your name.”

“That was intentional.”

He grinned. “Fair enough.” With a slight wave of his hand, he turned into a nearby alleyway and slipped off into the night. Natasha waited for a moment, then hailed Hill on her comm. 

“He’s on the run. Got past the cameras. I’m on him.” 

Hill cursed under her breath. “I thought he might. Call for backup if you spot him. We’re on the clock for this one.”

“I know, I know. I’ll report back at 0600.”

No response. She checked her watch. 0200 now. Which means Murdock would have to come up with a four-hour fool’s errand if he wanted to keep his freedom. Somehow, she thought he might be up to the challenge. She pulled out her burner phone, smashed it under her heel, tossed it in a nearby trash heap, and disappeared into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to research an accurate Russian pet name/term of endearment, but if I have made a mistake, do let me know as I don't speak Russian.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think, and have a lovely day :).


End file.
